Branston

It was foolhardy to think that I could spend time with this woman and not grow attached, I knew it the night I questioned our attachment and asked what it is that we are doing here.

I knew that we could not remain friends and simply stay that way indefinitely whilst we shared one another's beds. A decision had to be made one way or another. A decision I did not want to make, a decision I knew I had to take.

“What is it we are doing here Neyaa?”  That was the question he asked that led to that terrible fight that almost cost us our friendship. And now I pose the same question, ‘What is it we are doing here?’

​The first thing the Eorling woman was aware of when she awoke was the pain in the back of her neck when she lifted her head. The pain tugged and traveled across her shoulders and shot up into the back of her head. Her throat was parched, her eyelids stubborn to open. She rubbed them both, her vision cleared before her thoughts and it was then she realized she was still sitting on the floor of her chambers next to the wall near to her door.

Although it has been several days since my utter humiliation and likely end to whatever it was that I shared with Seaver. I cannot get the look on his face out of my mind, I shudder each and every time I picture it, like a hammer blow to the chest. As much as I had thrown myself back into everything that must go on as normal, my thoughts have been consumed with it and continuously playing out a different outcome, one where I had stilled my tongue instead and kept my heart in check.

Written on the other side of the parchment in an almost hurried manner.

I had been so elated of late. There seemed much to take heart from, but mayhaps it is fanciful of me to think all is well, because in reality it is not, not all all.

Oh how I despair of myself, what is wrong with me, can I not write about other matters? You would think I had naught else happening in my life, I do, I have a good life, but it is a troubled one of late. I must remedy that.

I am beginning to question the usefulness of you oh journal of mine.

Night after night I open you up, put ink to pen. And I sit. My mind a muddle of conflicting thoughts as always it is. Never is it simple. How I long for clarity. Instead, I sit here conducting fully fledged debates inside my head as I have so often in this book. Contradictory as my conclusions can be from one minute to the next.

My Darling Son,

Blince stood overlooking Branston, the child he was guardian over. The boy, with a wide grin on his face and wooden sword tiredly placed over his lap looked back at him. Panting, and fairly quiet, Blince turned and walked off to grab the bucket of water and rags to help cool the boy off.